


clothe my naked villainy

by thisisgonnahurt



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Brief mention of self-harm, Descriptions of murder, M/M, references to cannibalism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-27
Updated: 2013-04-27
Packaged: 2017-12-09 18:18:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/776520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thisisgonnahurt/pseuds/thisisgonnahurt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>The intensity of Will’s insomnia is directly proportional to time spent </em>not <em>working a case, as opposed to time actually spent in the field.</em> Philosophy means nothing in the bedroom, except for when it does.</p>
            </blockquote>





	clothe my naked villainy

The intensity of Will’s insomnia is directly proportional to time spent _not_ working a case, as opposed to time actually spent in the field. He tells this to Hannibal slowly, quietly, as if parting with a secret he wasn’t quite sure he wanted out in the open so soon. Hannibal is sitting in the chair across from him, perfectly still. It makes Will nervous. His own body is a jumbled tangle of electric wires, flashing impulses that keep his leg jittering or fingers tapping. 

Hannibal is the calm before Will’s storm.

“And I know it seems, um – it seems strange, right, because I shouldn’t be able to sleep when I’m thinking about a case? Such terrible things to remember, but I sleep better with them in my head than…than nothing.” Will is toying with his wrist, wrapping long, slender fingers around it. Hannibal looks at the knobbly bones of Will’s knuckles and imagines them on a chain, strung up and held tight against Hannibal’s skin, hidden under layers of fashionable (if he may say so himself) clothing. A silver chain, not gold, would complement them best. 

Hannibal shakes himself out of his reverie and answers, “What my years as a psychiatrist have taught me, Will, is that the mind is an incredibly complex place. Nothing is strange or wrong, necessarily. Every individual has his own reasoning, and who is to say that they are less valid than anyone else’s?”

The words fall out of his mouth like a rehearsed speech, but he doubts Will notices. He is too busy staring at a point just beyond Hannibal’s shoulder – Hannibal believes it’s where he has hung his copy of Repin’s _Ivan the Terrible and His Son_. 

Silence descends on the room as if their voices were a candlewick, blown out in an instant. Will’s throat works but he says nothing. Hannibal has always found the more existential route an effective method of questioning, of getting a client to open up to him. But Will shuts down instead.

A puzzle like Will is rare. Hannibal intends to savour it. 

“Do you want to sleep?”

Will actually looks Hannibal in the eyes. Hannibal thrills. “Of _course_ I do. I feel like I’m going out of my mind.” Will laughs a little as he says it. “Cliché, but true. It’s…it’s true.”

He looks as though he could pass out right there in Hannibal’s office. The dark bags under his eyes tell their own story, and the paleness of his lips and slight dampness of his skin speaks of an immune system also suffering from lack of sleep. Hannibal wants to take him to the shower, rain cool water on his skin and watch as it trickles away to nothing. He wants to see Will shiver. 

Instead he shrugs noncommittally. “You are very clearly a man who is devoted to his work. _Especially_ you, who cannot help but throw all of himself into the job.” He watches as Will stands up and moves to the open space of the room, pacing. Nonplussed, he continues: “Do you feel as though you are defined by your work?”

Will chuckles bitterly. “How can I be anything else? My job is to put myself in the shoes of the world’s most terrible people.” His voice gets higher and cracks at the end, and he hates himself even as he says, “I am the weapon. It’s _me_.”

Hannibal does not stand as Will walks over, stopping mere feet in front of him. Hannibal looks up at him readily, resisting the urge to raise an eyebrow. Will doesn’t meet Hannibal’s eyes, but his hands are shaking. 

It is enough.

*

A week passes. On Tuesday, Jack calls Will about three bodies found suspended from a bridge over the river, each covered with Egyptian hieroglyphics and each missing their head. It is a gruesome scene, and the water below is dark with dripping blood.

Will sleeps soundly that night.

*

Ten days later, they have the murderer in custody, but not without a few more bodies found along the way. Will is spending his morning in Hannibal’s home, fingers wrapped around steaming coffee and eyes darting over anything and everything. He hadn’t been able to sleep last night, had just laid there in resigned agony; he is surprised – but not unhappy – when Hannibal calls at five in the morning, sounding almost apologetic as he says “Forgive me, I woke too early and decided to prepare breakfast. Would you care to join me?”

_(He knew that Will would be awake, of course. Of this, Will is sure.)_

_(It does not stop him from saying yes.)_

Hannibal bends and sets down a plate in front of Will, who doesn’t even glance at it. He feels paralysed, rooted to the spot and incapable of clawing his way out of his whirling brain, one thought always coming to the surface, one thought he would never voice aloud—

“The case is over now, Will.” Hannibal straightens up but remains at Will’s shoulder, their personal space meshing until Will cannot tell where his body heat ends and Hannibal’s begins. “How do you feel about that?”

Will can’t breathe.

“Do you, perhaps, feel…disappointed? Upset?” It is said in the most casual of ways, but Will gets the feeling that Hannibal is much more invested in the answer than he would care to let on.

Nevertheless, he cannot help the twitch of his fingers. Hannibal, as always, has broken him down, taken apart the walls of his mind and replaced them with glass. There is no point in lying now.

He finds himself giving a quick nod, just a jerk of his neck, unwilling to vocalise the words. Hannibal smiles.

“Do you remember what I was talking about before?”

“You can’t say that this isn’t weird, Hannibal!” Will pushes his chair back and stands away, unable to handle the heat of Hannibal’s presence. “Yeah, the mind is a complex place, and morality is in shades of grey and one man’s life is different from another’s but it is _wrong_ to be upset about this!” 

“Who says it is wrong, Will? Are you a religious man? Do you ascribe to some higher power who says ‘thou shalt not kill’?”

At that, Will flinches, the memory of Hobbs written all over his face. Hannibal takes the opportunity to come closer. Will watches him, but only takes one step back. 

“It does no good to pretend you do not feel something. Sooner or later, it will find its way out anyway.”

Will’s head is going to explode. He wants to bang his forehead against a wall, punch himself in the stomach, cut himself with a knife; everything inside of him is boiling over and his skin is nearly bursting with it all. He has no time for Hannibal’s philosophical tangents. Any other day, perhaps, but not today.

He’s so tired.

Hannibal makes a noise when Will drags his lips to his own, but it is not one of surprise. Will makes a desperate sound when Hannibal opens his mouth, one hand sliding up Will’s back to cup the back of his head. Will may have initiated the scene, but he has no qualms believing that Hannibal will finish it.

Their trip to the bedroom is a short one; Will is lost in Hannibal's touch, brought back by the feel of the bed hitting the backs of his knees and the sound of Hannibal's voice: “I would argue,” Hannibal says into Will’s lips, hands tugging at Will’s cardigan until he dutifully lifts his hands, allowing Hannibal to pull it off, “That every person has the right to do for themselves that which will better their lives—“

“Are you _really_ ,” Will pants, toeing off his socks, “trying to talk philosophy in the bedroom with me right now?”

Hannibal could almost laugh with how well it is all going. Soon, he will have Will begging for him; all it will take then is some time to groom and condition Will into everything that Hannibal knows he could be. It will be a glorious day, the day that Will is finally his.

But the present day is good enough for now. It is not hard to get into Will’s head and introduce thoughts of morality and philosophy and how perhaps they can be twisted or, occasionally, forgone altogether. What is hard – what _will be_ hard, Hannibal thinks, careful not to plan ahead overconfidently – is getting Will to accept them.

Will makes an impatient noise and cants his hips up, bringing his cloth-covered dick in sudden contact with Hannibal’s own. It makes Hannibal gasp unexpectedly.

Will smiles, making no attempt to hide how smug he is. Hannibal could eviscerate him at a moment’s notice, wielding the knife in his bedside table with perfect efficiency.

But as tempting as the idea is, Will is an exercise in patience. So instead Hannibal allows himself to return Will’s smile. “You constantly amaze me, Will Graham,” he murmurs, digging his fingers into the flesh of Will’s torso. Now it is Will’s turn to gasp. “How far are you willing to take this little…affair?” He punctuates the word with grinding his hips down, rather marvelling at the fact that he cares not how it affects the fabric of his slacks. 

It is worth it for the feeling of Will’s fingers grabbing at his shoulders, legs spreading without thought and dick twitching against Hannibal’s thigh. “All the way, whatever—all the way, if you want it,” he pants, tossing his head back and swallowing. His eyes are closed. Hannibal thinks he sees the glisten of involuntary tears. 

Too much sensation, he is sure of it. Will is no virgin, but Hannibal is very aware of how he affects Will, and the high level of natural empathy Will is cursed with would almost certainly make even a random sexual encounter excruciatingly intense. Will shivers terribly as Hannibal drags rough fingernails down Will’s chest, and he makes a noise like a sob when Hannibal doesn’t bother avoiding his nipple. Angry red lines soon rise, and by the time Hannibal has pressed his mouth to them, Will is fully hard. The only barrier left on his body (Hannibal is fully clothed, a sensation that neither of them mind overly much, each for their own reasons) is a pair of short, thin black briefs, and Hannibal draws them down Will’s legs like a benediction.

Possessing Will like this is a dizzying sensation, and Hannibal feels he could almost be swept away. It’s an intriguing thought, a feeling he hasn’t felt in years. He files it away for later and focuses instead on Will’s moan as Hannibal wraps his hand around Will’s dick.

“Don’t—!” Will gasps out, trying to push Hannibal away. Hannibal is immovable, drawing slow strokes up and down Will’s length. Will chokes and says, “I want to wait, I want to, um…” He is bright red, but he looks Hannibal in the eye as he finishes: “I want to come when…when you’re fucking me.”

Hannibal concentrates very carefully on not grinning. He removes his hand from Will’s cock; he is still looking at Hannibal, as if a lifetime of avoiding eye contact has built up a debt that he now must repay. He looks like a deer in headlights. 

“I am assuming you have the necessary materials?” Hannibal asks, straightening up and getting off the bed. Will nods, pointing to the side table. “Do you want me to wear a condom?”

_(Hearing Hannibal’s voice wraps around those words almost sets Will off right there if he is being perfectly honest. He is burning alive, hypersensitive with sleeplessness and trying to get the feeling of blood off his hands and the imagery of blood-soaked books on hieroglyphics and_

_and that sense of loss growing in the pit of his belly, the loss of work and focus and place and why can’t he sleep, why can’t he just fucking SLEEP_ –

“Will.”

Will jerks as if awakened, and Hannibal does permit himself a small grin. “Is it the case?”

“Don’t bring that up, not now.” Will groans, flinging his forearm over his eyes. “I really don’t want to be psychoanalysed at the moment.”

So it is the case, then. Hannibal takes off his jacket and shrugs off his vest, making sure they are carefully put away before divesting himself of slacks and undergarments. Will is watching him, arm lifted from his eyes to rest above his head. He closes his eyes as Hannibal walks back to the bed, and exhales softly when he feels the weight of Hannibal on the mattress.

“These things you are feeling,” Hannibal says quietly, dripping lube on his fingers, “I really do believe they are normal.” He bends down to press an open-mouthed kiss to Will’s hip, letting his teeth hit the skin. “Spread your legs for me, please.”

Will complies hesitantly, his breaths speeding up as Hannibal places one palm on his inner thigh. Hannibal watches Will’s face as he slips a finger in; his mouth is slightly open, eyes staring at the ceiling, and when Hannibal adds another one, Will’s hips jerk and he makes a desperate noise, hands clutching at the sheets.

“You are naked here before me, Will. I see no monsters, nor evil, nor any other moral error you feel you may possess.” He is correct about the effect his voice has on Will; Will’s cock twitches, and Hannibal is close enough to it that he can feel the heat radiating on his cheek. 

He wants to take it into his mouth, taste the warm weight on his tongue and dream of the day when he has every inch of it memorised. 

Will seems to guess what he is thinking, because he says, “I’ll come, Hannibal, please,” and that could really be taken one of two ways but Hannibal knows which Will wants. He twists in a third finger and raises his head from Will’s groin, using his other hand to hike Will’s hips up. Will brings his hands to Hannibal’s face, nervous fingers threading into Hannibal’s hair. Hannibal lets Will tug him down for a kiss, swiping his tongue across Will’s teeth. Will’s breathing is laboured and a thin sheen of sweat is decorating his throat by the time Hannibal slips out his fingers and rolls on the condom.

“Is it easier for you on your back or on your stomach?” It is a courtesy that Hannibal plans to extend only this once. In the future, he will take Will however he pleases. “Perhaps, because of eye contact…”

“I’d prefer it from behind,” Will whispers, staring at Hannibal’s shoulder. “But not…” he swallows, “not because of eye contact.” He says it like he needs Hannibal to know, but doesn’t quite know why.

Hannibal nods. “You find it more arousing when it is more animalistic?”

To his credit, Will does not blush. He is making progress faster than Hannibal would have even dared to hope. “It helps me, um, it helps me forget easier. It helps me turn off my brain and just…”

“Just get fucked?” Hannibal finishes, and he actually laughs as Will is startled into meeting his eyes. “It is okay, Will. Above all else, I want you to be comfortable around me. This means voicing your innermost thoughts and not worrying about my judgment. I assure you, you will never receive it.”

Will says nothing, but Hannibal didn’t expect him to. He sits up, eyes falling away from Hannibal’s gaze, and haltingly turns over. The expanse of his back is exquisite. Hannibal can picture all the muscles, laid before him as if they are a finished puzzle on his bed. The bones are easy to see, shadowy through the slenderness of Will’s frame. His skin is glistening. 

Hannibal coats himself with lube – there will be a time when he is not so careful, when it will hurt and leave marks and serve as a reminder to Will: a reminder that even though they are the same, it is Hannibal who made Will what he is; there will be a time, yes, but it is not right now – and presses into Will’s body. Will groans, shoulders shaking. His skin is bunched up around his scapulae, Hannibal cannot resist sinking his teeth there, tasting the salty tang of sweat and hearing Will curse and gasp as Hannibal uses the distraction to slide deeper in. Hannibal himself almost gasps at the feeling of being inside Will. It is a sensation equivalent to that of a fine meal, one that takes weeks to secure and prepare. 

“ _Move,_ ” Will grits out, dropping his head and arching his spine. The movement tips Hannibal fully into Will, the sound of flesh hitting flesh making both of them groan. 

Hannibal wraps his fingers around Will’s hips and complies.

In keeping with Will’s apparent knack for surprising Hannibal, he turns out to be a more vocal bedmate than Hannibal would have guessed. Not overly loud, but he moans every time Hannibal hits his prostate, and when Hannibal takes Will’s dick roughly in hand, Will cries out and comes, thighs trembling. His semen is warm on Hannibal’s fingers.

Hannibal slows his thrusts and raises his hand to his mouth, licking it off. Will cannot see him, but it is quiet in the room except for the noises they are both making, and the rasp of Hannibal’s tongue over his fingers is very apparent.

“Do I taste good?” Will quips breathlessly, breaking the silence.

 _(He has never liked silence. There is too little said and too much to imagine.)_

He does not sound disgusted, however; merely curious. Truly, Hannibal thinks, this is the beginning of something great.

“My dear Will,” Hannibal responds, repositioning himself and gliding one finger up Will’s spine, “you taste _delicious_.”

Will opens his mouth, presumably to say something sarcastic, but Hannibal snaps his hips forward roughly, increasing the intensity of his thrusts until Will is gasping for breath, eyes glazed. His limp cock twitches weakly against his thigh – a fact that does not go unnoticed by Hannibal – as Hannibal bites the inside of his mouth and comes. His hips stutter once, twice; he makes no noise but a sigh, and he is gentle as he pulls out. 

Will gulps air, collapsing onto his stomach. There are still little aftershocks assaulting his body. Hannibal kisses his bicep as it jumps.

“Talk about…unconventional,” Will says presently, rolling over. Hannibal has already stood, but he graces Will with a small chuckle as he walks to the washroom. He returns with a damp cloth, and Will shudders when Hannibal brushes his cock with it.

“It is only unconventional if you considered it a form of therapy,” Hannibal responds. He is amused at the idea. “As far as I was aware, we were two adults having a conversation.”

Will snorts. “It _started_ as a conversation. It ended better than most conversations do, in my experience.”

His voice is dry, but he sounds lighter, somehow. Hannibal seizes the moment. “And what is your conclusion from the conversation?”

It is silent, but only for a few moments. “I still don’t…” Will trails off, uncertain. 

It is exactly what Hannibal wants. “Moral relativity is strange, I know. The idea of no one moral code applying to any two people. But in this case, Will, I think it can only help you to accept this. As long as you are not going out perpetrating the crimes in order to satisfy yourself, there is no harm in feeling the way that you do.” Hannibal pauses, and, spurred on by his instinct (a sense that rarely fails him), takes a gamble: “And even if you did, well…” He draws out the last syllable until Will meets his eyes. “You are responsible for your own life, and who is to say that is not right for _you_?”

“Thanks for the advice.” Will’s voice sounds like it is doing its best to sound flippant, but there’s something scratching from below the surface. Something curious, something pregnant; as if a seed is growing in his mind. He laughs uncomfortably. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

It is enough.

**Author's Note:**

> The title is taken from _Richard III_.


End file.
